


Bend In the Wind

by irisbleufic



Series: No Heart So Hardened [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward First Times, Awkward Flirting, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, Evidence, Falling In Love, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, First Time, Fugitives, Gotham City Police Department, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injury Recovery, Intrigue, Investigations, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical, Medical Trauma, Medication, Mother-Son Relationship, Murder, Murder Husbands, Obsessive Behavior, Organized Crime, POV Edward Nygma, Photographs, Possessive Behavior, Private Investigators, Puzzles, Recovery, Rescue, Rescue Missions, Season/Series 01, Secrets, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 21:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14481648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “You are private investigator by moonlight?” [Gertrud] quipped, her accent thickening with laughter.“I’d moonlight as one if I had the time,” Edward replied. “For now, I need part-time practice.”“Fair,” Gertrud said, straightening her spine as she rose from the chair, "but I cannot pay you.”“Payment’s in the pursuit,” said Edward, reassuringly. “Should we go somewhere else to talk?”





	Bend In the Wind

Edward had weathered stranger mornings on the job than this one, and he preferred them. Last time he’d checked, his duties didn’t include making elderflower ginger tea for the possibly-deranged mothers of missing persons.

“Be careful,” he said, reluctantly handing his favorite question-mark mug over to the distressed woman, whose name he’d learned about ten minutes prior. “It’s hot.”

“Tea is usually that,” said Gertrud Kapelput, eyes narrowing reproachfully at him over the rim.

“I’m sorry it’s taking the officers so long to figure out who can help you,” said Edward, at a loss, glancing around the deserted waiting area before concluding that it would be inconsiderate to leave her alone. “I’ll stay a bit longer if you want. The corpses can wait.”

“Then you are the one who sees murder victims,” said Gertrud, hesitantly taking a sip of tea.

Edward nodded and took the empty chair to her left, intrigued to note she hadn’t taken offense.

“I’m a forensics tech,” he explained. “It sounds a lot better than _the M.E.’s flunky_ , anyway.”

“Medical Examiner,” said Gertrud, quietly, more to herself than to Edward. “I have questions.”

“For the M.E.?” Edward asked, uneasy at the sudden darkness in her glance. “About what?”

“For you, since you can answer,” Gertrud replied, taking a deep breath. She removed a small clutch from within her worn velvet coat, handing the tea to Edward so that she could pry open the clasp. She sorted through a tattered sheaf of receipts and ten-dollar bills, finally producing a school-size photograph that looked like she’d cut it from a standard glossy print. “This is who I report missing,” she said. “Oswald. He is my son.”

“May I?” Edward asked, extending the mug, which she took in exchange for the photograph.

“I want to know if you have seen him,” Gertrud whispered, wrapping both hands around the mug. “In there,” she said, nodding toward the back of the station. “Please do not sugar-coat.”

Edward studied the young man’s features, lingering over the pale eyes and sharp nose. Oswald was unconventionally attractive to say the least, possessed of a near-prettiness that Edward found haunting.

“I haven’t seen anyone like this,” he said truthfully. “With that haircut, I wouldn’t have forgotten. You told Alvarez he’s been missing for how long?”

“My son did not come home last night, I tell him,” Gertrud confirmed. “Before he rushed off with papers and left me with you.”

Edward nodded, handing the photograph back to her. “What does your son do for a living?”

Gertrud took it back hesitantly, engrossed in a long swallow. “He works for that Fish woman.”

“Fish as in Fish Mooney?” Edward asked, trying not to let his surprise show. “The mo—” he thought better of saying _mobster_ , wondering if Oswald had been in the habit of lying to his mother about his line of work “—mentous nightclub owner?”

“The same,” Gertrud confirmed, smiling proudly. “Such a classy place it is, such _taste_.”

Before Edward could do his best to reinforce her misconception, Harvey Bullock and Jim Gordon swept past. They were engaged in heated discussion, and Jim looked even moodier than he had for the past twenty-four hours and change. Rumor had it something had gone south—

“Would you excuse me,” Edward said, jumping to his feet, following the furtive detectives, “for just a moment? Two of my colleagues appear to be at a loose end, so I’ll see if they can…”

“You are so very helpful!” Gertrud called after him as he tailed Jim and Harvey past the cells.

Edward didn’t relent, not even when Harvey noticed him and told Jim to pick up the pace. He didn’t stop until he’d pursued them up the right-hand staircase to their desks.

“You can’t keep beating yourself up over this,” Harvey was saying to Jim. “Ed, what is it?”

Edward looked at Jim even though Harvey was the one who’d taken a moment to address him.

“It’s the woman I was sitting with,” he said in a rush. “Her son is missing. Alvarez took the report and blew her off. I was—” he made a back-and-forth gesture “—stuck in the crossfire.”

“If Alvarez took the case, then it’s his circus,” pronounced Jim, morosely. “What’s the name?”

“Kapelput,” said Edward, careful to accent it the same way that she had. “Gertrud. Ring a bell?”

Jim’s eyes had widened a fraction, lit from within with agitation. “I meant the missing son, Ed.”

“Oswald,” Edward replied. “I didn’t see the notes Alvarez took, but Oswald Kapelput must—”

“Christ,” Harvey muttered, removing his hat as he turned away. “Christ on a fuckin’ dirtbike.”

“You sure the name’s Kapelput?” said Jim, so grim it was intriguing. “Not _Cobblepot_?”

“Should I be…looking out for a party by that name?” Edward asked, tilting his head meaningfully toward his downstairs domain. “Some try to hide, some try to cheat—but, in time, we’ll inevitably meet—”

“You should keep your mouth shut, Ed,” Jim snapped, “and tell me if anyone mentions him.”

“Jim, for the hundredth time,” Harvey hissed, dropping heavily into his chair, “let it friggin’ _go_.”

Edward’s mind was already racing, piqued at the prospect of a puzzle. Jim was known for anything but subtlety; Harvey was known for anything but integrity. Bad combination.

“Roger that,” Edward said, turning on his heel, and rushed back down the staircase. _Kapelput, Cobblepot,_ he thought with fascination. _Surely there can’t be two Oswalds, one of each. You don’t come by those surnames every day, let alone, well, ever._

Gertrud looked up from her tea, which was gone, as he breathlessly returned. “Can they help?”

“No,” Edward said, resuming his seat beside her, utterly sick of being shuffled aside. That, at least, the two of them had in common. “But, as it happens, my schedule’s opened up.”

“Why would they send the forensics tech to help?” Gertrud asked, her expression turning fearful.

“If you can spare your son’s photograph,” Edward said, “and tell me everything you possibly can about him, then I can help you. I went into the clue-gathering business for a reason.”

Somewhat reassured that Oswald hadn’t been found dead, Gertrud nodded resolutely at Edward. She handed him the photograph, which had remained in her hand, and then the mug.

“You are private investigator by moonlight?” she quipped, her accent thickening with laughter.

“I’d moonlight as one if I had the time,” Edward replied. “For now, I need part-time practice.”

“Fair,” Gertrud said, straightening her spine as she rose from the chair, “but I cannot pay you.”

“Payment’s in the pursuit,” said Edward, reassuringly. “Should we go somewhere else to talk?”

“You are at work, and they will miss you,” Gertrud sighed. “Come tonight when you are off.”

“Wait, to where?” Edward asked, wondering if he’d missed something. “Where am I going?”

“To where I live,” Gertrud clarified, rummaging in her pocket. She drew out a pen pinched from First Bank of Gotham, snatched back the photograph, and wrote an address on the back.

“Right,” Edward said, raising his eyebrows when he realized that she lived two parallel streets north of him—a five to six minute walk. “I know where you are. I’m at Grundy 805.”

Gertrud’s manner softened in wonder, her eyes brightening. “Then we are neighbors,” she said.

Edward was so busy imagining what it would mean to prove himself—to beat Harvey and Jim at a game they were mixed up in, if their caginess was any hint—that he almost didn’t hear her. He nodded in confirmation, tucking the photograph in his breast pocket.

“If traffic behaves,” Edward said, offering Gertrud his hand, “I can be there by five thirty.”

Shaking it, Gertrud winked conspiratorially. “Let Alvarez chase slowly. He is our back-up.”

“No one can know I’m helping you,” Edward cautioned, withdrawing his hand. “Agreed?”

Turning to go, Gertrud nodded somberly. “I am a graveyard of secrets,” she said. “Agreed.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

On his way out for the evening, Edward spotted something that didn't bode well for his freelance venture: Montoya and Allen from the MCU were visible through the half-drawn blinds of Captain Essen's office. Alvarez stood next to them, flipping pages on his clipboard.

“Like you actually have a reason to care about this case,” Edward muttered under his breath, taking the side exit. With any luck, they wouldn't be sent to question Gertrud until the next day; he would get first dibs on inspecting her residence. “And my reason's tenuous.”

Sadly, traffic didn't comply as seamlessly as he'd hoped. It took him forty minutes to reach his neighborhood, plus another fifteen to find street parking within reasonable walking distance of Getrud's building. She hadn't left him with a phone number, so there was no way to call and apologize for being late. It was five past six when Gertrud buzzed him in.

The stairwell to the second floor was dimly lit, and a lone paneled window on the landing cast the long hall in sickly, ashen light. _Apartment 8_ , he thought, registering the brass number on the first green door to his right, and then paused in front of the second. _Aha, 9._

“Ms. Kapelput?” Edward called, knocking cautiously, leaning toward the peephole. “I'm here!”

The sound of a chain and bolt being undone prompted him to step back. Gertrud peered into the hall for a moment before opening the door wide, her suspicion giving way to relief.

“Cannot be too careful, even if I am expecting a kind boy like you,” Gertrud said, her lace sleeves trailing as she closed the door behind them. “GCPD has called,” she went on, leaning against the door as she locked it. “They will send officers in the morning.”

“Detectives Allen and Montoya are from the Major Crimes Unit,” Edward sighed. “They're taking this seriously, but not seriously enough if they couldn't send them tonight. Do me a favor when they're here and pretend you know _nothing_ at all, is that clear?”

Gertrud set one finger alongside her nose and winked at him. “The forensics tech was not here.”

Edward breathed a sigh of relief, brandishing his briefcase. “Somewhere I can set this down?”

“Please, you must come and rest,” Gertrud said, leading him over to the sofa. She cleared an empty cut-glass fruit bowl and teacup away, rattling around to the kitchenette behind Edward as he claimed a cushion, set his briefcase on the table, and popped it open. “Pay you, I cannot do, but my plan is cook while you ask questions. You are hungry?”

Nodding, Edward removed his notepad and shut the briefcase. “I could eat. What, ah, is there?”

“Is easier to keep frozen goulash and soup,” Gertrud explained absently, her syntax more fragmented, opening the upper portion of the decades-old refrigerator. “Such hours he works, my Oswald. When he gets here, often I am asleep. He eats like this.”

Edward watched as she removed a clear-plastic former takeout container. Its contents looked more like stew than soup, the broth thick enough to be gravy. He could recognize pieces of red pepper, onion, carrot, and fennel. The onion, he wasn't pleased about.

“Is Fish Mooney's club his only place of employment?” Edward asked, turning away from her as she fetched a pot and put it on the stove, withdrawing a pen from his pocket. “Or does he have more than one part-time gig?”

“Just Fish,” said Gertrud, banging the frozen-solid cylinder into the pot. “Why this question?”

“Because it sounds like his hours are long and unpredictable,” Edward said, jotting down everything she'd said thus far. “Is it possible he's working a double or triple shift? Have you called the club, maybe gone down there to have a look?”

“The _first_ place I have gone!” she said snippily, making some more noise. “Shameful.”

“Sorry,” Edward sighed, making a note of her ire. “So Oswald wasn't there, and hasn't been.”

“They have not seen him since yesterday morning,” said Gertrud, now prodding and stirring. Quiet simmering gradually gave way to a delicious smell; she gave a critical hum.

“And he didn't show up to work this morning?” Edward asked next. “Who'd you speak to?”

“Those men, never Fish, so busy she is,” Gertrud replied. “Yes, he has missed work,” she continued. “Never in his _life_ is he away this long. Always, he comes home to his mother, or he calls to say that he is late.”

“Those men,” Edward echoed, pausing as he wrote. “Do you mean bouncers or bodyguards?”

“Whatever they are, so stern,” Gertrud said, clucking her tongue as she stirred. “Not like Oswald.”

Edward set down the notepad and pen, turning to lean on the back of the sofa. He watched her work, realizing he'd need to take a different approach to get anything useful.

“What _is_ Oswald like?” Edward asked with as much sincere interest as he could manage.

Gertrud brushed a reddish splatter off the spoon's handle, tasting it thoughtfully, and then turned to fix Edward with a wistful smile. She set the spoon aside and put a lid on the pot.

“His clothes are here. My son would never leave his clothes,” she sighed, grabbing Edward's hand, indicating that he should rise and follow her. “Oh, so _elegant_ he is,” she went on, leading him across the room to a cabinet with chipping grey paint. “Yes, I show you,” she said, reaching for a pair of faux-gilt picture frames. “Since he was a little one...”

In the left-hand photograph, Edward had no difficulty recognizing a much younger Gertrud and an aging couple—perhaps her parents—and a dark-haired boy of about three or four. Oswald's grandfather had both hands on his grandson's shoulders. Oswald was in a child's suit.

In the right-hand photograph, Oswald occupied the entire frame. The pose had less of an old-world quality to it than the first, perhaps a high-school portrait. His hair was more conservatively styled than in the photograph in Edward's pocket, combed neatly to one side.

“Only the one time did he meet my mother and father,” Gertrud sighed, setting the family photograph back down. “I scrimped and scratched, took him to Budapest for a month. Four years later, both of my parents are dead. I never see them again, and Oswald...” She closed her eyes, clutching the remaining frame to her chest for the space of several long, pained breaths. “What he is like,” she said, her eyes filling with tears as she looked up at Edward, “is the most clever, _devoted_ son I could ask.”

“He must be charismatic,” Edward said, accepting the frame as Gertrud handed it to him. “You need that to work in hospitality. Is he good at it?”

“After high school, right to work,” Gertrud said proudly. “Sometimes two jobs at one time.”

“Definitely not a slacker,” Edward agreed, removing the smaller photograph from his pocket, comparing it to the frame in his right hand. “He's, what—eighteen here, late twenties here?”

“That one I give you, it was taken a month ago,” Gertrud explained. “Oswald is thirty-one.”

“Four years older than I am,” Edward remarked, setting the frame next to its companion. “Huh.”

“Tell me what you are thinking, Edward,” Gertrud pleaded, grasping Edward's wrists. “Please.”

Edward attempted to pull away, but Gertrud was strong for a woman so seemingly exhausted.

“He's been missing for over twenty-four hours,” he said reluctantly. “That's not encouraging.”

Gertrud released him, her features hardening with a flash of fury before waxing serene again.

“No, I would feel it,” she insisted, her manner almost patronizing. “A mother feels these things.”

“Studies have lent intuition a lot of credibility,” Edward allowed, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. “If your son is well-regarded at work, which it seems like he is, then...”

“It's a woman,” Gertrud said spitefully. “Some painted _slut_ has him in her clutch.” She took Edward by the hand again, leading him past the larger of the two beds along the wall, presumably hers, and over to the smaller one parallel with the bathtub and corner chair. “I am sure,” she continued vehemently, gesturing at a tidy regimen of men's grooming products along part of the angled bay-windowsill. “So handsome he is. And _so_ naïve.”

 _Working for the likes of Fish Money_ , Edward thought, _I think not. But clever, he definitely must be, or he'd never survive in that environment._

“Are you sure it's a woman?” he said instead, reaching for a pair of cufflinks alongside the scalloped, deep-indigo glass jar of pomade. It was an upscale British brand Edward had coveted for some time, but could only afford in his wildest dreams. “Does he...well, date?”

Gertrud shook her head wistfully, snatching the cufflinks out of Edward's palm. “Those friends he brought home, once or twice,” she sighed. “Such handsome boys. But they did not stay.”

Edward opened his mouth to speak, but swiftly closed it. He went for a cautious nod instead.

“You are not like those boys,” said Gertrud, pensively. “You, I can trust. Such a kind heart.”

“Maybe someone did mean him harm,” Edward said evasively, the phrase too loaded to even unpack. Between the implied non-normative sexuality and the fact Oswald was part of Fish Mooney's gang, Edward didn't even know where to start. “Which bed is his?”

“That one,” Gertrud said, turning on a nearby lamp. “So neatly made. Please, you must look.”

Edward sat down on the edge of it, smoothing his hand over the duvet. It felt like eiderdown.

“Meanwhile, I will bring something,” Gertrud said, whisking off to a closet on the opposite side of the tub. She opened it and began to rummage, murmuring to herself in a language that sounded like anything _but_ English.

The smell drifting over from the kitchenette, more pervasive than ever, suggested sweet paprika.

“You mentioned Budapest,” Edward said, flipping down one corner of the mauve duvet, examining Oswald's threadbare floral pillowcase. “Your parents were Hungarian?”

“German, my father,” said Gertrud, bustling back with an armful of dark fabric, “but my mother and her family? _Magyar_ for generations.” She offered the pile of clothing to Edward, which included not only a suit, but also a crisp white shirt, underthings, and shoes.

“I don't understand,” Edward said, taking the bundle so it wouldn't fall on the floor. “What am I supposed to do with this? I can't use it for evidence.”

“When you find him,” replied Gertrud, “he will be miserable without clean things. Take these.”

The first warning bite of caramelization hit the air, so Edward dumped the clothes on the bed and dashed to the stove. He snatched the spoon and began to stir, turning off the burner, relieved.

“This is beyond finished,” Edward said, licking a splash off his thumb. “Where are the bowls?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Edward found parking a block from Mooney's club, in a lot that was free after hours. Killing the ignition, he unclipped his GCPD identification badge from the lapel of his jacket. He tossed it onto the back seat, eyeing the brown paper bag in which Gertrud had put Oswald's effects and a slip of paper with her land-line number. In return, he'd left Gertrud both his work and cell.

To the best of Edward's knowledge, Fish Mooney had no idea who he was. And it wasn't likely that Harvey, whose connections to Mooney were one of the worst-kept secrets around the precinct, would have casually mentioned Edward to her.

Edward reached for the bag, moving it to the passenger seat. He unrolled the top and felt around inside, encountering the cufflinks—a last-minute addition on Gertrud's part—inside one of Oswald's shoes. Edward felt his way inside the second shoe and located the other afterthought, Oswald's jar of pomade. He pulled it out of the bag, squinting at the label.

 _Lavender brilliantine_. Well, it would suffice for the impression that he needed to give.

Edward squirmed out of his jacket, draping it over the paper bag. He pulled down the visor mirror, frowning at the appearance of his hair. Mussing it with some of the brilliantine on his fingertips produced an unusual effect, artless-yet-deliberate waviness across his forehead.

Removing his question-mark tie bar, Edward apprehensively exhaled. _You're a worried friend of Oswald's, and you need to imply that you're more_ , he thought. _You might get better information._

It took all of his courage to get out of the car and walk to the club's entrance. He took a moment to appreciate the red-lit fishbone logo. When the bouncer spotted him, Edward fumbled in his pocket for his wallet. He wouldn't be able to prevent the staff from learning his name.

“I'm looking for Oswald,” he said to the hulking muscle currently scrutinizing his driver's license, aiming for casual charm with a hint of apprehension. “Is he here tonight?”

“Cobblepot quit,” said the bouncer, more soft-spoken than Edward would have expected, handing the license back to him. “But if you wanna drink, it's Happy Hour.”

“I, ah, maybe,” said Edward, pocketing his wallet. “But I need to find Oswald. I haven't heard—”

“We haven't seen hide nor hair all day, so that counts as callin' it quits,” said the bouncer. “Ms. Mooney ain't happy with him. How d'you know him?”

“We spent some time together,” Edward said with hesitation. “Recently. He said he'd call back.”

The bouncer swallowed a surprised _huh_ , removed a walkie-talkie from his pocket, and sauntered off to one side. He spoke in rapid Spanish, and the warbling that came back matched.

“Understandably, Ms. Mooney is concerned,” he said, returning to Edward. “Wait at the bar.”

Edward nodded and hurried inside, a bundle of jangling nerves. He was astonished that he'd even gotten in the door, much less secured a possible audience with Fish Mooney herself.

After two half-price grasshoppers and a lot of nervous staring at the ceiling, someone tapped Edward on the shoulder. He almost fell off his stool.

“Ms. Mooney will see you,” said the handsome server, indicating that Edward should follow.

The booth was off to the left of the stage, where a lackluster vocalist continued to croon. On one side, Mooney was enjoying a late dinner. The server seated Edward across from her.

 _Don't stare_ , Edward thought, but everything from the choppy scarlet fringe of her hair to the blinding metallic copper of her low-cut dress demanded attention. He met her gaze.

“Who are you, young man,” said Mooney, with something like amusement, “and what has Oswald Cobblepot _ever_ freely given that would make you want to come back?”

“The lover's privilege and the hypocrite's mask,” Edward said, brain on autopilot. “What am I?”

Over several seconds' silence, Mooney's expression shifted from charmed intrigue to mild anger.

“A kiss,” snapped Edward, in sheer irritation at her cluelessness. “The answer is _a kiss_.”

“I must say,” Mooney said, delicately cutting another bite off the lamb medallion in front of her, “you don't look like the type I've seen my former umbrella boy moon over.”

“What type is that?” Edward asked, wondering if the second glass of champagne the server had brought was for him. He inclined his head just enough to sniff it, deciding it was too dry.

“Muscle-bound, clean-cut,” replied Mooney, once she'd finished chewing. “Think soldiers and cops. You've got the clean-cut part down, though, so maybe he was expanding his horizons.”

“Was?” Edward echoed uneasily. Time to play the part he hadn't thought through well enough; there was no limit to what he was willing to do to prove himself. “ _Former_ umbrella boy?”

“Oswald was responsible for everything from carrying my umbrella to keeping my books,” Mooney explained, tapping the varnished points of her nails along the table. “You might say he was my Jack-of-All-Trades, but he vanished on me. Seems he's done the same to you?”

“Yes,” Edward agreed readily, deciding it was time to up the stakes. “I was just at dinner with his mother. Gertrud's worried sick about him. She asked me if I'd seen—”

Calmly, Mooney silenced him by raising a finger. She snagged the nearest red linen napkin, used it to wipe her rose-stained lips, and got up. She came around the end of the table and slid into Edward's side of the booth, extending an arm behind his back, not quite touching him.

Edward fixed his eyes on Mooney's unfinished plate. He could scarcely breathe, much less move.

Mooney's breath puffed against his right cheek as she leaned closer.

“There's no mistaking Mama Kapelput's cooking,” Mooney said, brushing at Edward's sleeve. “I can smell it on you.” She sat back slightly, moving her hand from Edward's wrist to his chin, turning his head toward her. “You're handsome enough, but your hair could use work,” she said, brushing his hair back and off his forehead. She rubbed her fingers together, sniffing them. “My _my_. That's even Oswald's. What's your name?”

“Ed,” Edward told her, realizing there'd be no use in fabricating one since they had seen his ID.

“Edward _Nygma_ ,” Mooney mused, patting his shoulder as she slid out of the booth, returning to her side. “That was a riddle you told, wasn't it?”

Edward nodded, wanting nothing so much as to fuss with his hair, but he kept his hands folded.

“I know a guy who knows a guy who likes riddles,” said Fish, resuming her fork, gesturing to one of her bodyguards. “You be careful out there in the big, bad world, Ed.”

“If I find Oswald,” Edward went on, voice hitching when the bodyguard took him by the shoulder and dragged him out of the booth, “should I tell him to get in touch?”

“If you find him,” said Mooney, already engrossed in her food, “there'll be no goddamn point.”

Edward couldn't persuade the bodyguard to release him until they were back outside in the street.

The bouncer gave him a look that bordered on pitying. “Rough night. Didn't find your man?”

“No,” Edward sighed, fixing his hair by feel. “I'm no closer to knowing where to start, either.”

Glancing from side to side, satisfied that the sidewalk was deserted, the bouncer approached him.

“Ain't nothin' good comes to folks who disappear while workin' here,” he said. “Last I saw of him, Ms. Mooney was lettin' him have it. Busted up his leg real bad. Try the docks.”

Unable to respond beyond a numbly-muttered _thanks_ , Edward fled. He didn't stop until he'd locked himself in his car and peeled out of the parking lot, nerves almost too shattered to pay adequate attention to road signs and other disgruntled drivers.

 _The docks_ , even around the precinct, was code for _dead as a doornail_. What were Jim and Harvey hiding, if anything? Furthermore, what was Edward supposed to tell Gertrud?

Even if Oswald had survived being beaten and avoided drowning, he wouldn't get far with an injury like the bouncer had implied. At best, he'd sustained joint damage and hairline fractures. At worst, bones shattered—no mobility at all, a death sentence after that kind of exposure.

Edward drove home in a state of shock, realizing how narrow _his_ escape had likely been. Mooney had said she knew a guy who knew a guy who liked riddles. So Harvey had mentioned him, but not by name. It was only a matter of time before Mooney asked questions.

The decent thing would have been to head back to Gertrud's apartment and give her the bad news, as well as return Oswald's effects. But the tremor in Edward's hands as he clutched the paper bag and his jacket to his chest was a sure sign he was near meltdown.

The elevator rattled as it reached Edward's level of the building. He let himself into his apartment, dropping both the bag and jacket in his haste. Gathering them up again, he dumped them on the end of the kitchen worktop before heading straight to his bed.

Even shedding tie, belt, and shoes took more effort than they were worth, but Edward valued propriety. He left his glasses on the nightstand, too, before yanking down the covers.

From the particular angle he'd curled up against the pillows, something sharp poked his chest. He worked several fingers into his breast pocket, latching onto the object he'd forgotten.

At close range, even subtly blurred, Oswald's face remained an irrevocably memorable one.

“I didn't mean to fail your mother,” Edward said, wondering why he even felt the need to speak.

Disgusted with this turn of events, he stuffed the photograph under his pillow and tried to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

For the first time in his life, Edward was late to work—by seven minutes exactly. And Dr. Guerra was clearly cross with him as he came into the autopsy room to fetch his lab coat.

“Move your ass, Nygma,” Guerra said. “Get your kit. There's a crime scene ten miles out.”

“Outside the city?” Edward said, grabbing his GCPD windbreaker, relieved he wouldn't be working with his supervisor for most of the morning. “That wouldn't be our jurisdiction.”

“It's a weird one, and the nearest suburb doesn't want it,” Guerra replied, shrugging. “Go, go.”

Since Jim and Harvey were preoccupied with the precinct's latest case—something to do with missing street children—they sent Alvarez and Burtner along for the ride. The stretch of riverbank was within sight of Gotham's skyline on the opposite bank, downriver from the Docklands.

The scene itself was one of the strangest Edward had ever examined.

Usually, fishermen died of heart attacks or strokes. The victim was white and in his sixties, clad in a hunter green coat, jeans, duck boots, and a navy wool cap. His throat had been cut at close range; the force of the blow had caused him to topple off the milk-crate he'd been using as a seat.

Edward was left more or less alone with the corpse while his colleagues established a perimeter.

Once he had examined the wound and dictated his initial findings, he turned his attention to the open steel case full of lures, line, and other supplies. The fisherman's folding knife—wood and steel handle, bloodied blade—had been dropped in the tray next to half a turkey sandwich.

Edward picked the knife up with his latex-gloved hand, and then considered the unfinished lunch. Unlikely, that the victim would've brought just part of a sandwich. He'd been interrupted in the midst of eating, perhaps just starting. If that were the case, where was the rest?

Knife still in hand, Edward considered how impressively the man had bled out. Considering the angle of attack and the volume of blood, there should've been more of it splattered around. Wandering down to the water's edge, he instantly spotted a garish stain on the gravel.

Next to it, there was an indentation that Edward would have recognized anywhere: a footprint.

Edward drew an evidence bag out of his pocket. He dropped the knife in it, put the bagged item in his other pocket, and rummaged in his kit for a tape-measure. The print was just a fraction over ten inches, which was in the range of textbook-average for a men's size nine.

At the thought of Oswald's shoes—in the paper bag, which was back in Edward's car, as he planned on taking it back to Gertrud after work—he faltered. Coincidence or chance?

Letting the tape-measure snap shut, Edward tucked it into his coat. He stood, staring down at the print and the bloodstain for a long time.

The fisherman had been dead for around a day and a half, maybe two days at most. Eerily precise, the way clues were falling in line.

Just because Oswald worked for a notorious crime syndicate didn't mean he was a killer himself.

_The docks, the docks. Could he have survived a float downriver? He would've been starved—_

“Nygma, what are you doing down there?” Alvarez asked, beckoning. “Any sign of a weapon?”

Edward snapped to attention, his decision made. There was intuition, and there was insanity, and he wasn't yet sure which deck he was playing with. Where he'd once started out with an eye toward his own advancement, the only thing that mattered now was not letting Gertrud down.

 _And finding the answer_ , prompted the increasingly insidious voice of his subconscious.

“Nope,” replied Edward, deadpan, scuffing out the gravel print as if in absent disappointment.

“Then get up here,” Alvarez said, gesturing at the completed yellow tape, “and let's photograph.”

Over the next two hours, Edward went through the motions absently, snapping pictures of the scene from every angle that the detectives requested. Another hour after that, they were back at the precinct with both the body and evidence in tow. Guerra insisted on performing the autopsy immediately, and he slapped Edward with note-taking duty for the duration.

The bagged knife remained in Edward's pocket until he was able to grab a break for lunch, at which point he fled to his car to accomplish two things. Stowing the knife was the first, and verifying that he hadn't hallucinated the size of Oswald's shoes was the second.

Edward met his own gaze in the rearview, wide-eyed even as the eyes in the mirror narrowed.

Dr. Guerra didn't question the claim that he was feeling ill and needed the rest of the day off, and Captain Essen approved the sick leave with genuine get-better wishes. Almost too easy.

On arrival back at the crime scene, Edward could see from the shoulder of the road that yellow tape remained in place and that the clean-up crew was continuing to comb for minutiae. He kept driving, wondering how far someone in excruciating pain, but still ambulatory, could have gone.

Several miles on, Edward noticed that smaller, unpaved roads out through the spring-desolate fields were more common. He took the next three, disappointed when they culminated in farming-equipment-populated dead ends.

The fourth, however, did not. Staked with two handwritten _TRAILER FOR RENT_ signs, it took a sharp right after half a mile. The white farmhouse at the end of the track had a trailer directly across from it, and there were two vehicles, a truck and an SUV, present.

Edward parked next to the truck, which sat in the small driveway belonging to the farmhouse.

Knocking on the front door yielded no results, although investigating the unlocked garage produced an alarming discovery. He wasn't about to open the three garbage bags to verify that there were bodies inside. The shape of them alone was telling.

Edward closed the garage door, grateful that he'd thought to wear gloves. He got back in his car and locked the doors, eyeing the trailer with its amateurishly-lettered rental sign. Best to sit and watch, maybe, to see if anyone emerged.

Rummaging in his glove compartment, Edward was pleased to find he hadn't left his binoculars at home. Little was visible through the trailer windows, at least from the angle afforded him from the driver's seat, so he rolled down his window and leaned as far as he could.

Something patchy covered part of the trailer ceiling in his line of sight, newsprint or wallpaper mimicking it. Frustrated, he lowered the binoculars. If this was what the average stake-out felt like, he couldn't imagine how Jim and Harvey got through one without wanting to strangle each other.

Thinking better of the fact that he hadn't investigated the unfortunate trio's cause or causes of death, Edward hung the binoculars around his neck. He got out of the car, re-entered the garage, and cut open the bags with a pair of gardening shears he found hanging on the wall.

All three men—the middle-aged one wearing a mechanic's shirt and the twenty-somethings stripped of all clothing except underthings—had sustained brutal neck injuries. At least two, the mechanic and one of the younger men, looked consistent with puncture by broken glass.

The freshest-dead of the three—one of the twenty-somethings—had more likely bled out due to deliberate application of a properly-sharpened blade. Edward searched the garage for a knife before closing it up again, but found nothing.

Tapping his steering wheel as dusk set in, Edward yawned. No lights had gone on in the trailer, and the house was dark. Inspection of the deceased mechanic's wallet had revealed him as the resident.

Edward leaned out the window for a last look with the binoculars before settling back in his seat.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There was no telling how much time had passed, except that it was broad daylight when Edward opened his eyes to the sting of something thin and unyielding pressed to his throat.

“I'm only going to ask this once, friend,” said the hoarse, sneering voice to Edward's left. “What is your name, who do you work for, and why are you spying on me?”

“Didn't know it was you,” Edward croaked, “although I hoped.” He turned his head as far as he could without the blade biting into him. “Why does the universe keep giving you sharp things?”

Oswald, haggard and wild-eyed, was dressed in a yellow collared polo, cream cable-knit sweater, and khaki trousers that fit him badly. At a guess, he'd cobbled those together from his victims. It lent a lot of weight to Gertrud's claim he hated being without a change of clothes.

“You...hoped?” Oswald asked, his grip on the knife faltering. “Seriously, what kind of joke—”

Edward had just enough time to unlock the car door and shove it outward, knocking his assailant to the ground. He tripped, scrambling after the kitchen knife, which had flown into the grass.

Oswald struggled to sit up, groaning and clutching his right leg. “What the _hell_ is this?”

“My name is Ed, I work for the GCPD, and I'm spying on you because nobody else would help your mother find you,” Edward said, tossing the knife as far into the tall grass as he could.

“Mother?” Oswald echoed, his fury fading. “You work for the police and know my mother?” He took a tremulous breath, as if he'd snapped out of a trance. “Do you know Jim Gordon?”

“And his partner, Harvey Bullock,” Edward said, crawling closer to Oswald. “Unfortunately.”

“Jim's a good man,” said Oswald, as if reciting a script. “He defied orders and saved my life.”

“Orders?” Edward echoed, confused in his turn. He knelt next to Oswald's injured leg, making a hesitant gesture. “I don't understand, but I do know you're hurt. I know what your boss did.”

Oswald's expression went from vulnerable to dazed. “You know who did this to me?” he asked.

“You wouldn't believe where I've been on this goose chase,” Edward replied. “Fish Mooney.”

Nodding, Oswald didn't even make an attempt to argue. “Did the GCPD send you to arrest me?”

“GCPD doesn't know I'm here,” Edward reassured him. “I'm helping your mother off-record.”

“Pardon my saying so, but you do _not_ look like an officer,” said Oswald, sarcastically.

“That's because I'm not,” Edward said, getting to his feet, understanding now that Oswald would need some convincing. He went to the car, fetched the bag containing the fisherman's knife, and came back. “I'm on the forensics team,” he explained, swinging it in front of Oswald's face.

“You tampered with evidence to protect me,” Oswald concluded with a wince, arranging his damaged leg flat against the ground. “Why?”

“I didn't want to disappoint your mother,” said Edward, reluctantly. “I also wanted answers.”

“Can't say I blame you,” said Oswald, offering a wry smile. “Nobody who's met her wants that.”

Edward was beginning to understand that the love-blinded bias in Oswald's tiny family went both ways. He knelt again, setting the fisherman's knife aside, and pointed to Oswald's leg.

“Before we do anything, would you let me take a look?” he asked. “I have medical training.”

“Did you happen to search the main house?” Oswald asked. “Or the garage, for that matter?”

“I know that your body-count is three higher than I suspected yesterday,” said Edward, dryly.

“Does anyone else know...” Oswald swallowed, looking afraid for the first time. “About that.”

“I doubt it,” Edward said, setting a hand on Oswald's thigh in sheer frustration. “You're hurt.”

Oswald glanced down at Edward's hand as if he couldn't quite believe that it now rested there.

“Haven't examined it closely myself,” he said, taking hold of Edward's wrist. “I'm terrified.”

“Can I?” Edward pressed again, turning his palm upward so that Oswald's grasp loosened.

“I guess,” replied Oswald, “but I can't imagine cutting up dead people's the same as— _ow_!”

Edward worked Oswald's pant-leg up just far enough to reveal a horror of blood, bruising, and dislocation. The worst of the damage was in two places, knee and ankle, but a perfunctory tactile examination that made Oswald scream in agony turned up no major fractures.

“If you'll consent to being taken to somewhere safe, I can sedate you,” Edward promised. “I can clean your injuries, bandage them, and get you a proper brace. But you shouldn't be walking, at least not without an aid, for _weeks_. The damage might already be done.”

“Did you miss the part,” Oswald panted, sweating profusely, “where I'm an unrepentant killer?”

Edward shrugged. “Did you miss the part where I defied orders just like you claim Jim did?”

“You make a fair point,” Oswald said, chewing the inside of his lip. “Where's this safe place?”

“Gotham,” Edward told him, gingerly tugging the pant-leg back into place. “My apartment.”

“I don't want my mother to see me like this,” Oswald warned. “Fix me before you contact her?”

“That's the easy part,” Edward said, glancing over his shoulder at the house, “in comparison to...”

“We should probably burn it all down,” Oswald sniffed. “Saves us the bodies being discovered.”

“No, we shouldn't do that,” Edward muttered. “The smoke would draw attention. We should just leave them as they are. I'm choosing to believe you killed them in self-defense.”

“Most murder, unless it's an accident—or, you know, for fun—is just that,” Oswald pointed out.

“Or the perpetrator's insane, but I'm also choosing to believe you're of sound mind,” Edward said, offering Oswald his hand. “Have you left anything in the trailer that we should remove?”

Oswald looked comically guilty. “I vented my frustrations by making a collage on the ceiling.”

“Then I'll tear it down before we leave,” Edward promised, getting to his feet. “Stay right here.”

“Ed, you said your name was?” Oswald asked, tilting his head to look up at Edward. “Ed what?”

“Nygma,” Edward replied, noticing for the first time that Oswald's eyes were even more arresting than the photographs had made them look. “Edward Nygma. Ed for short.”

“Well, Ed-for-short,” Oswald said, “you have a devious mind for someone in your line of work.”

Edward nodded in reluctant agreement, uncertain of how to respond, and went inside the trailer.

The annotated assemblage of newspaper clippings was comically disturbing. As much as peeling an Aubrey James labeled _DUNCE_ , a Jim Gordon labeled _STOOGE_ , and a Fish Mooney labeled _BITCH_ off the ceiling made him want to giggle, all Edward could think was that none of Gertrud's stories had adequately prepared him.

Oswald Cobblepot was the most inexplicably captivating individual that Edward had ever met.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They hit a stumbling block when, safely back at Edward's apartment, Edward made the mistake of too-bluntly informing Oswald that he was filthy. Several minutes of feather-unruffling later, Edward insisted that he couldn't treat Oswald under properly hygienic conditions unless he'd brush his teeth and assent to assistance with a shower.

Edward dragged one of the side-chairs from his tiny dining table into the bathroom. He was astonished to find that Oswald, using the sink for support, had both made use of the unopened reserve toothbrush _and_ stripped down in Edward's absence.

“Nobody ever told you it's rude to stare, did they?” said Oswald, tartly. “Not even Mom?”

“Your mother,” Edward retorted, pushing back the shower curtain and placing the chair over the drain, “tells me I'm trustworthy and considerate, so maybe you should rethink your assessment.”

Oswald appeared to mull this over, as if he'd only just absorbed his drastic reversal of fortune. He'd only spent the entire ride back to the city saying how much he missed Gotham.

Edward turned away, loosening his tie. He'd have to dispose of his clothing, too, due to having manhandled Oswald so extensively: into the car, out of the car, up the elevator, into the apartment. And there was no way he'd just step into the shower fully dressed.

Once Edward was down to his undershirt and briefs, he considered leaving them on. But Oswald's devil-may-care rashness was attractive, as were the lean, pale lines of his body. Discarding the last of his clothing on the pile, Edward turned and offered Oswald his arm again.

“I stand corrected,” Oswald said, his tone strained. His skin was a shock of heat down Edward's side as they limped over to the chair together. “You're a paragon of chivalry and politeness.”

“Thanks,” Edward said distractedly, reaching around Oswald to turn on the water. Satisfying, to hear Oswald's indignant squawk at the cold blast against the back of his head. “Shampoo,” he said, thrusting the bottle from the caddy into Oswald's hands. “Wash your hair while I attend to your leg first. It'll help distract you.”

“Distract me,” Oswald muttered, doing as he was told. His eyes lingered somewhere about Edward's midsection as Edward finally removed his waterlogged glasses. “Whatever.”

Kneeling on the tile made Edward's knees ache, but taking his bottle of medical-grade cleanser and a fresh washcloth gingerly to Oswald's leg kept him focused. He couldn't discern the finer details of Oswald's expressions as they moved through the joint effort of getting him clean.

When Oswald finally decided to focus on washing between his legs, Edward turned toward the wall and used the Hibiclens on himself from head to toe. Oswald was likely in too much pain to entertain thoughts of arousal, and Edward's inclinations in that direction felt shameful.

 _When a mother says her son is handsome, it's one thing,_ he thought, scrubbing at his scalp. _But when you believe it's true, that's quite another._

Oswald's hand shot out to steady him when he almost slipped in the process of turning to rinse.

“It wouldn't do to have both of us crippled, would it?” Oswald asked, and Edward bent closer under the spray so that he could make out the upturned corners of Oswald's mouth. His smile was devastating.

“No,” Edward agreed, surrendering as Oswald braced both of Edward's hands on his shoulders.

“You can't do proper surgery?” Oswald asked, his expression anxious. “Do you think I need it?”

“If proper surgery is what you want, I'd have to check you into a hospital,” Edward cautioned, turning off the water once he was sure he'd been thorough. “And I know you want to let people think you're dead for the time being.”

“That doesn't answer my question,” Oswald said, his tone taking a dangerous edge. “Do I _need_ —”

“The only thing I can definitively advise is that you need to stay off your leg as much as possible,” said Edward, removing his hands from Oswald's shoulders, flinging aside the curtain. He reached for both clean towels on the rack, tossing one in Oswald's lap. Resuming his glasses was perilous, because Oswald witnessed clean, nude, and in detail did nothing for his denial. “And I'm also sure I can manipulate the dislocation.”

“How are you going to knock me out?” Oswald asked, letting Edward help him up. He promptly wrapped the towel around his waist, and then leaned into Edward, almost flirtatious.

“Midazolam injection,” Edward said, focusing on the clinical instead of Oswald's striking eyes. “Neck or thigh, your choice. It'll hurt either way.”

Oswald made a face as Edward helped him hobble out of the bathroom. “Whichever's fastest.”

Edward dressed while Oswald, draped in nothing but one of Edward's old plaid robes, sprawled on Edward's bed. He was aware of Oswald's eyes on him at every turn, not so foolish as to think Oswald's returned attention _wasn't_ telling. Edward was oblivious sometimes, but he was no fool. He wondered if, under better circumstances, Oswald would have made explicit verbal advances.

Edward also wondered if, as he sank the needle in Oswald's taut neck, he would have accepted.

The job was arduous, and potentially disastrous. Oswald's injuries, on being inflicted, would have required immediate attention. Over forty-eight hours old, they'd begun to grow set in the body's stubborn ways, various minor misalignments unyielding.

The strain of coaxing the most obvious dislocation back in line left Edward's fingers in agony.

Once he'd bandaged Oswald's leg, Edward sat on the mattress beside him, exhausted. Oswald's hair had dried haphazardly, so he rearranged it as best he could. Dressed in no more than the clean underthings and pajama bottoms he'd donned for working in, Edward lay down.

Drifting in and out of slumber for several hours, he was conscious when his patient yawned.

“Still not dead,” said Oswald, thickly. “Wondered if I'd even wake up, seems like you know...”

Edward rolled onto his side, startled when Oswald's hand sought his cheek. Was it in thanks?

“I know what I'm doing,” he said shakily, covering Oswald's hand with his own. “Count on it.”

“Even right now?” Oswald asked, scooting closer with a grunt of pain. “There,” he said, turning his head toward Edward's without needing to roll on his side. “Thoughts?”

Edward considered the opportunity set before him, as well as the bone-deep exhaustion they doubtless shared. Not the time to think about a hook-up, even if it was tentatively on offer.

“We should revisit this later,” he said, stroking the back of Oswald's hand. “After we've slept.”

Oswald took a shuddering breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and closed the space between their lips.

He kissed like he didn't know how, so Edward had absolutely no reservations about kissing back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Edward woke again to dimness that suggested early evening. He remembered trading lazy, yielding kisses with Oswald until they'd been too drowsy to continue. He'd held Oswald as they slept; indeed, Oswald clutched Edward's arm across his middle like his comfort depended on it.

Edward's phone abruptly vibrated on the nightstand, which was on Oswald's side of the bed. He extracted his arm from Oswald's grasp and sat up, rubbing his eyes. He wondered if it was Guerra calling to shout at him for missing a day of work beyond the half-day he'd asked off.

He reached the phone barely in time to answer it, and the voice on the other end was Gertrud's.

“All _day_ I am trying to call you at work!” Gertrud railed reproachfully. “And you answer _nothing_ after five on this number until now! So I fear they have taken you, too, and who _knows_ where my poor—”

“Ms. Kapelput,” said Edward, quietly, “I found him. He was hurt and needed medical attention.”

Gertrud's sob of grateful dismay on the other end of the line was loud enough to rouse Oswald. He blinked up at Edward dawdling beside him, shrewdly parsing the situation.

“I don't want her to see me like this!” Oswald said peevishly. “Just—ugh, give me the phone!”

Edward handed it over without hesitation, in no way envying Oswald the daunting task before him. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle Oswald too much.

Oswald's features grew more pinched by the second as he held the phone about an inch from his ear, and Edward could hear Gertrud's railing in full detail. Oswald clutched at whatever part of Edward was easiest for him to reach—his thigh, his forearm, his hand—seeking reassurance.

“Well, Mom, it's a really long story!” he finally shouted, startling Gertrud into merciful silence. “But if you want to come over, we'll obviously have to ask Edward. It's _his_ apartment.”

Edward took the phone from Oswald, recognizing his chance to relieve Oswald of his grilling.

“I would have brought him right home, but there's no way I could have worked on him,” Edward said. “I know who hurt him, but I don't know _why_.”

“It was those terrible men at the club,” Gertrud insisted, disconsolate. “Always so jealous.”

“Actually, it was Fish Mooney,” Edward replied, shaking Oswald's hand when Oswald's squeezed his in displeased alarm. “And Oswald hasn't had the chance to tell me the whole story yet. He's only just gotten up. He was sedated for a while, and now he's exhausted.”

“Was it very bad?” Gertrud asked, sounding mildly contrite. “What did that _bitch_ —”

“His right leg was in questionable shape when I found him,” Edward said. “Bruising and dislocation of the knee and ankle, minor fractures probable. Even with access to an X-ray, they're not the kind I could pin or set. The best I can do is steal some mobility aids—”

“Explain these words,” Gertrud insisted, by now impressively grounded. “I must understand.”

“A brace and crutches,” Edward clarified. “Ideally, a walker; at minimum, a cane. Is that clear?”

“Bed is better than all of these, yes?” Gertrud asked after a tense silence. “No dashing about?”

“If I were you, I'd keep him majority-immobilized at home for six to eight weeks,” Edward said.

Oswald made a sound of disgust, letting go of Edward's hand. “I did not sign up for this, Ed.”

Edward covered the mouthpiece, lowered the phone, and glared at him. “I didn't sign up for everything that came with this deal, either,” he hissed. “Although I—I do want the latest.”

That seemed to sober Oswald sufficiently into compliance. “Fine. Bring her here if it'll help.”

Edward brought the phone back up, flashing a nervous grin at Oswald. “I'll come get you.”

“I will get ready and wait in street,” replied Gertrud, and hung up with decisive enthusiasm.

“I do not know,” Oswald said, his hand creeping back to Edward's thigh, “how you handle her.”

Edward rubbed it there and leaned over to kiss him, every inch of his skin flushed with promise.

After dressing, Edward called Essen's office number. Eight o'clock in the evening wasn't an uncommon hour for her to still be at the precinct. It went straight to voicemail, so Edward stammered out an apology involving a too-detailed analysis of his imaginary food poisoning.

Oswald made endearingly appalled faces at him the entire time. However, his expression softened when Edward got to the part where he'd need another full shift—tomorrow, which was Friday—off.

“That'll take us into the weekend,” Oswald pointed out, bashfully chewing his lower lip.

“I know,” Edward replied, smiling, and left the apartment before Oswald could tempt him.

Gertrud was dressed in the same worn, but well-mended velvet coat she'd worn to the precinct. She fawned over Edward's car as he helped her into the front seat, saying she hadn't seen one like that in years, and in such good shape, too.

Edward couldn't help preening the entirety of the brief drive home. He asked Gertrud two riddles; she got one of them. She retaliated with a children's joke, so Edward laughed.

In the elevator, Gertrud turned to him, hanging even more tightly to Edward's elbow for support.

“Is it very bad?” she asked in a near-whisper. “Have you spared me the worst things, Edward?”

“I think you'll be pleasantly surprised at both his condition and his spirits,” Edward replied, and let them into the apartment as the elevator _clunked_ to a stop. “After you.”

“Hi, Mom,” Oswald said, waving with sheepish defiance as he propped himself up. “I'm alive.”

To Edward, hanging back while Gertrud rushed to the bed in a fit of concerned nonsense only seemed polite. He hung his coat and removed his shoes, making his way to the refrigerator while mother and son argued behind him. Gertrud's insistence that she'd been _right_ for once about it being a painted slut, i.e. Fish, made Edward stifle a giggle against the side of his hand.

“Yes,” Oswald relented, exasperated as Gertrud hugged him, “but it was _not_ like that.”

“Thank goodness that Edward find you,” said Gertrud, shushing him. “Otherwise, who knows.”

Edward decided he could derail this, too, and solve the problem of Oswald's growling stomach.

“Italian?” Edward asked, holding up two different containers of sauce. “One's got mushroom.”

Gertrud stayed until almost midnight, insisting on doing everything from the dishes to tidying the bathroom. Edward had to prevent her from touching the clothing that he and Oswald had left on the floor, locking her out while he blitzed the pick-up job she'd attempted to start.

Oswald was sound asleep against Gertrud's shoulder by the time he emerged again.

“Ah,” Edward sighed. “Quite the long day, huh? Just let me get my shoes on, and I'll take you home.”

Shaking her head, Gertrud eased off the edge of the mattress and tugged the covers up around Oswald's chin. She fetched her coat off the hook, put it on, and hugged Edward tightly.

“You stay with him,” she said in a low voice, patting Edward's cheek, “and call taxi for me.”

“I can do that,” Edward agreed, wondering if she had understood everything she'd witnessed.

Once Gertrud was gone, Edward came back upstairs and changed back into his pajamas. Oswald stirred while he was in the process, grouchily tossing back the covers, so Edward went to him.

“Your mother cares for you,” Edward whispered, brushing a kiss against Oswald's temple as Oswald arranged Edward's arm around himself as he'd done before. “Very much.”

“If I didn't...know better, I'd say she...cares for you,” Oswald yawned, and promptly passed out.

Edward closed his eyes, tucking the fingers of his free hand beneath the pillow. He found the photograph, and then pushed it until it fluttered silently from the headboard gap to the floor.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Oswald hadn't made a sound, but he wouldn't have needed to. He had gone so tense in the curve of Edward's arm that the change in his musculature was sufficient to wake Edward.

“What's the matter?” Edward murmured, rubbing circles over Oswald's chest. “Does it hurt?”

Oswald nodded, turning his head to look at Edward. “Not as bad as when it happened, but...”

“Stay put,” Edward said, extracting himself from Oswald as carefully as he could. “I'll get you something for it,” he went on, sliding out of bed. “Maybe some tea to ease your stomach; oxycodone can be very—”

“Ginger if you have it,” Oswald mumbled, turning his face into Edward's pillow. “Please.”

Edward still had some of the elderflower ginger he kept at work, hoping Oswald wouldn't mind the additional flavor. He hovered next to the stove, pills and teabag-prepped mug in hand.

After four minutes, satisfied that the water was hot, Edward dropped the pills in the mug, filled it, and added some honey to the concoction. He stirred and crushed until the pills had fragmented, and then carried the mug over to the bed—where Oswald now sat on the edge, looking fragile.

“Swallow all of this if you can, but not too fast,” Edward said, pressing the mug into Oswald's hands, helping him tip it up to his lips. “The painkiller will take quicker effect as a suspension.”

“Gross,” Oswald commented after a few gulps, but downed the rest of it with brute efficiency.

Edward took the mug from him, setting it aside on the nightstand, and then knelt to take Oswald's leg in both hands. He unfastened the bandage, unraveling only as much as he needed to check the appearance of the flesh surrounding Oswald's kneecap.

“The bruising is livid, but the swelling has gone down an encouraging amount,” Edward said. He brushed his thumb across the delicate, discolored flesh, unable to suppress a shiver.

“Do you…want to touch me?” Oswald asked, pinning Edward’s hand against his knee. “Because I, um,” he stammered, nervous pallor rendering his blush even more attractive, “want you to.”

Edward finished securing the bandage as carefully as his shaking fingers would permit, and then shuffled closer to Oswald. He set both hands on Oswald’s thighs and kissed him longingly, tasting the painkiller’s bitterness and the honey-stung trace of tea.

“I would love to,” Edward said, finally pulling back when it was clear Oswald needed to breathe, brushing Oswald gently through his boxers. “ _Oh_ my,” he breathed, cupping Oswald’s hardness more fully as Oswald’s mouth dropped open.

“Take your clothes off,” Oswald said desperately, pushing Edward’s hand away, shedding his borrowed robe before Edward could even process what was happening. “This…I don’t think I’ll…” He was breathing high and shallow, eyes excruciatingly bright as he watched Edward rise and clumsily shed his pajama bottoms. “Ed, can I—touch you, too?”

“Not just yet,” Edward muttered, catching Oswald’s wrist. He wanted Oswald’s hands on him as badly as he wanted to touch Oswald again, but he suspected this would be less about making it last and more about the aftermath. He fussed with the collar of his pajama shirt, only to find that Oswald had launched himself off the edge of the bed and into Edward’s space.

“Can I unbutton this?” Oswald asked, his face so pink that Edward couldn’t help falling harder.

“Yes,” Edward said, the word a pathetic rasp of air on his lips. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, pressing his mouth to Oswald’s temple as he felt the gentle tug-and-release of Oswald’s insistent fingers down his front. And then Oswald’s hands were on his chest, trembling.

“You left these on,” Oswald said, sliding his hands down to the waistband of Edward’s underwear. “Here,” he said, slipping his fingers underneath.

Edward could only wind his arms around Oswald’s neck, too aroused to feel embarrassment at the startled cry he muffled in Oswald’s hair. He’d never imagined what another person’s touch would feel like, much less assumed that the gesture would carry such heartfelt reverence.

“Hello there,” Oswald mumbled against Edward’s collarbone, rubbing appreciatively over the slippery head of Edward’s erection. “ _Fuck_ ,” he panted, tugging Edward’s underwear down. “Take these off. Help me…”

Edward whimpered in dismay at the profanity, finding that Oswald had twisted out of his embrace and collapsed on the edge of the bed again. He stripped out of his tugged-down briefs and got back on his knees, taking over the job of removing Oswald’s boxers for him. He kissed Oswald’s bandaged leg from knee to ankle, giving himself a slow, grounding stroke for relief.

“You’re so hot,” Oswald whispered, the color in his face evening to a blush across his fine, high cheekbones. “Come here,” he said, taking Edward’s face briefly in both hands, and then swung his legs up onto the mattress and reached for Edward.

“Oh dear,” Edward mumbled, crawling onto the mattress beside him, longing to admire every inch of his skin. But he kissed Oswald into the pillows, impatient, wincing as Oswald’s fingers found him again. “I’m going to—” Edward flushed hot, wondering if he could even say it “—to come if you—”

“Like I’m _not_?” Oswald scoffed, letting go of Edward after giving him a few blissful strokes, instead molding his hand to Edward’s hip. He rolled onto his side, pressed all up and down Edward’s front, the throb of him against Edward’s belly impossible to ignore.

“Wait, this’ll hurt,” Edward said, crawling over him so he could settle on Oswald’s opposite side and pull them back the way they’d been. He tugged Oswald’s bandaged leg up and over his thigh, bracing it there. “Oh my _stars_ ,” he whispered, gathering Oswald to him.

“Who—” Oswald made a helpless mewling sound against the side of Edward’s neck, already too eager as Edward rubbed against him “—who even says that anymore?”

“You’re hot, too,” Edward said worshipfully, ignoring the question, noting the way Oswald tensed every time they moved. He’d do anything, _anything_ Oswald asked.

“I’m close,” Oswald whimpered, fingers clenching and unclenching against the back of Edward’s neck. “Ed, would you…” He swallowed thickly, attempting to throw his weight backward. “If I was...under you, we could…”

“I know,” Edward groaned, rolling Oswald onto his back. He settled between Oswald’s spread thighs, resuming their momentum faster than Oswald could trap him there. “ _Oswald_.”

“Oh, you’re good,” Oswald choked, biting Edward’s collarbone as he shook. “ _So_ good.”

Edward didn’t need any more urging than Oswald’s praise, or the wet heat streaking his belly. He mumbled apologies into the pillow, his cheek mashed against Oswald’s hair, and came.

“Are you okay,” said Oswald, hazily, after a half-minute or so, more statement than question.

Edward lifted his head, afraid that by now his face was an abashed, splotchy mess. “Are you?”

Oswald nodded immediately, hair across his forehead in chaos, his pale eyes glassy and smitten.

Edward risked a smile, stroking Oswald’s hair, and then brought his palm back down to Oswald’s cheek. He closed his eyes, lips parting as Oswald tipped his chin up for a kiss.

“I might be a little in love with you,” Oswald confided between eager pecks, like a secret.

“I’m…headed that way fast,” said Edward, his eyes shut tight. “Please tell me this isn’t…”

“If it feels like a dream for you,” Oswald said quietly, “believe me when I say I can relate.”

Edward opened his eyes, struck by how candid Oswald seemed. “Okay,” Edward agreed.

Oswald lifted his hands from Edward’s shoulders, fussing with Edward’s hair in turn. “There.”

“Do I look presentable?” Edward asked, grinning apologetically. “I don’t think I can bring your mother back here looking like this. She’d know something…happened.”

“Oh _please_ ,” sighed Oswald, with familiar, sarcastic charm. “She’ll be happy you’re not some painted hussy trying to steal me away from her,” he went on, rolling his eyes.

Edward considered this for a second, and then kissed Oswald for saying something ridiculous.

“But I _am_ trying to steal you away,” he insisted, taking a chance. “I mean to keep you.”

“Then we’ll have to work on the hussying skills, won’t we,” Oswald retorted, smugly pleased.

As a compromise, once they’d cleaned up, Oswald called his mother with an update on how he was feeling and what Edward planned to make for breakfast. He played with Edward’s hair the whole time, snuggled against Edward’s chest like he never intended to move.

When Gertrud insisted on speaking to Edward, Oswald shoved the handset up to Edward’s ear.

“I cannot thank you enough for saving him,” said Gertrud, sniffling. “You are such a fine boy.”

“Thank you, Ms. Kapelput,” Edward replied, softly kissing Oswald’s warm cheek. “Any time.”


End file.
